


A Familiar Situation

by grimmfairy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Close Friendship, Dog John, Familiar!John, Gen, M/M, Past Abuse, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is John's master sort of, Sorcerer Mycroft, Sorcerer Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimmfairy/pseuds/grimmfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This an alternate universe where some people are sorcerers and can have familiars with human/animal forms, and the world of magic is kept hidden from "regulars", non-magic people. Sherlock is a powerful sorcerer, like his brother, that uses his powers of deduction along with his magic to solve all sorts of crimes that the police can't, all while hiding his powers from the human world. He rescues John, an abused familiar that bonds with him. John and Sherlock develop a strong bond and Sherlock helps a traumatized John move past his abuse by helping him solve crimes in the human world. This is not yet slash. </p><p>I so don't own any of the characters or anything related to the show. But I wish I did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the beginning

Sherlock picked the lock quickly and efficiently. No need to get the police involved as this was not so much a case as a favor to his brother Mycroft. A small time sorcerer, more of a magician, was causing trouble by robbing banks using magic. Mycroft had asked Sherlock to catch him, being much more powerful, before the police did. Even a weak sorcerer could take on a few regulars. And they did not need some greedy idiot reigniting the Salem with hunts.

The lock gave way under Sherlock's careful movements and the door swung open. A quick flick of his fingers disarmed the security system inside and another closed the door. Sherlock pulled out a flashlight and began searching the upstairs flat. Deductions started.

_Lives alone, only child? Unlikely. Right handed but occasionally does thing left-handed. Heavy drinker but not alcoholic yet. Owes money to...two, no three people, thousand of dollars each. Preparing to leave for a tropical place, hasn't decided on specifics yet. Owns...a dog_

That was unexpected. All indicators showed that this man disliked animals and lacked the empathy with which to care for one. His deductions continued.

_Familiar? Possible._

Sherlock made his way to the basement flat, wary of the unfamiliar surroundings. The unknown factor of a familiar was something that gave him pause, but not nearly enough to make him turn and run. He could feel the power of some wardings on the door to the flat, and he ran his hand over them, easily undoing them.

"Amateur," Sherlock muttered. Whatever was behind this door, the suspect didn't want it found. The door opened and Sherlock stopped, shining his flashlight inside. A small figure huddled in the far corner, covering their head with bound hands. Sherlock noticed offhandedly that there was a food dish (empty) and a another bowl most likely for water (also empty). And tons of dog hair, on every surface. But the figure in the corner was obviously human, male, and...upon a closer, completely naked except for a collar. He closed the door behind him and sealed it with a simple spell.

Sherlock approached the figure carefully, turning the overhead light on as he did. The young man was smaller than Sherlock, approximately 5'6", pale skin and blonde hair that was dirty. Bruises littered his bare skin, and the collar around his neck was a cheap dog collar that looked too tight. As Sherlock stopped a few feet away, he saw the binding warding on the man's shoulder, a raw red symbol that looked more like a fresh branding. It was a symbol that forcibly bound a familiar to the sorcerer that put it there, something that was quite painful for the familiar and quite illegal to perform. Sherlock examined him for awhile longer. Finally, two terrified blue eyes lifted to meet his.

"What is your name?" Sherlock asked, reaching towards him. The young man tried to curl more into the wall than he already was, whimpering. Sherlock retracted his hand. "It's alright. I won't hurt you. I won't even touch you without your permission. I promise."

John lifted his tear-stained face, seemingly judging whether or not to trust this tall man with the long black coat and blue scarf, and took in his piercing stare.

"John." He whispered. "My name is John."

"Ok, John." Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his pocket and ignored. "My name is Sherlock. I'm here for the man that lives here."

"My...master..." John seemed to struggle with the word. "He's coming back. He's just...a few minutes away."

"Alright." Sherlock sat down on the ground, still three feet away. "So you're his familiar, that's how you sense his location."

John nodded.

"Do you know what he's been doing?" Sherlock asked. John's eyes darted to the door, as if expecting to see his master there. "It's alright, you don't need to be afraid of him."

"Why?" John asked, a glint of accusation in his eyes. Ah, Sherlock thought. He was betrayed, sold on the black market. Sherlock's chest tightened at that. Familiars magnified a sorcerer's power's and also provided companionship, shifting between human form and animal. They were supposed to choose who they bonded to, and stay bonded for life with that person. It was said that when a familiar met the right person, they just knew. Like love at first sight. Recently though, familiars were being sold in secret to the highest bidder.

"I won't let him hurt you anymore, if that's what you're wondering." Sherlock stated, realizing it was true as he was saying it. John looked at him, as if for the first time.

"But he might tell me to hurt you." John whispered. "I'm bonded to him."

"I can undo that. I am far more powerful than he is." Sherlock said, somewhat smugly. "I will release you, if you wish. I can protect you."

"Why would you help me?" John asked, his sad blue eyes refusing to look hopeful.

"I don't know. I want to." Sherlock shrugged. "Also, I have been hired by my brother to bring this half-rate sorcerer to him before he manages to reveal the secret world of sorcerers, causing the regulars to hunt us down one by one and kill us. Or at least, try to kill us." Suddenly John tensed and let a fearful sound.

"He's here!" John started hyperventilating. "He's here, don't let him-"

"John, breathe!" Sherlock said, snapping John's focus back onto him. Above them, they heard a door open and then hurried footsteps on the stairs. "Do you want me to reverse the binding?" John paused, looking panicked. Then he nodded. Sherlock reached a hand out gently and placed it on the angry red branding that bonded John to his master.

John sucked in a breath as Sherlock closed his eyes and scrunched his face in concentration. His grip on John's arm tightened and John could feel the chains inside him loosening, falling away one by one. Sherlock's eyes opened suddenly and the light above them glowed brightly and exploded. John cried out as a flash of fire wracked his frame with pain, and then he slumped against the man who had just freed him. Sherlock quickly untied John's wrists, listening as the sorcerer outside pounded on the door, unable to overcome Sherlock's spell. Sherlock rolled his eyes. It must have sapped this idiot's strength for weeks after binding John to himself.

Suddenly, Sherlock found that he was holding a dog instead of a man, John's animal form, a lovely brown Australian Shepard, smaller than average with the same sad blue eyes. At least, Sherlock assumed he was lovely, his brown fur was dirty and matted. John nuzzled Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock stood, placing himself between John and the door, and removed the spell. The door flew open and the man fell into the room. Sherlock smiled icily.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. We need to talk."


	2. Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John home and takes care of him.

"Sherlock, who is he?" Greg Lestrade asked. They were sitting in the waiting room of Bart's Hospital. Frankly, Greg was surprised when he found Sherlock in that basement giving his coat to an unknown man. John, he said. The young man had looked terrified, and leaned into Sherlock as he limped up the stairs to wait for the ambulance.

"His captive. I did some digging. His name is John Watson, retired Army medical assistant, injured in action. Disappeared six months ago from his small flat outside London." Sherlock checked off the facts as if reading a grocery list. Lestrade was cut off from further questioning when a nurse called for Sherlock. He met with the doctor outside John's room.

"Sir, Mr. Watson refuses to speak to anyone other to ask for you. We've assessed his condition. Multiple contusions and lacerations, three fractured ribs, minor concussion, and slight dehydration and malnutrition." The doctor checked his record. "He ah, has no immediate family or emergency contacts listed in his files."

"He doesn't have any immediate family." Sherlock said shortly. "He's been asking for me."

"Yes, he has. You can go inside, he's awake." Sherlock brushed past the doctor and swept into the room. John's face relaxed at the sight of his familiar face. Sherlock scared him somewhat, he was so powerful. He had subdued his former master, binding his power so the police could arrest him. Then he had noticed John was back in human form, and shivering. The man's coat was draped over the chair in the corner.

"John." Sherlock said in greeting. "Feeling better?"

"I suppose. I want to get out of here. I don't like it here." John said quietly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. The other man didn't like it when he made eye contact.

"Then I'll sign you out. Not much the doctors can really do for you besides prescribe painkillers." Sherlock said. "I can do more for you when we get out of here. I've regained my strength enough."

John's eye widened and unbidden tears crept in. Sherlock stepped forward uncertainly. "Why are you doing that? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm fine." John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I just...I don't have anywhere to go, any clothes, any money-"

"John, don't be dull. You can stay with me." Sherlock said dismissively. John's mouth dropped open. "My flat has another room upstairs, and I think my landlady would like you."

"But you don't anything about me." John said. Sherlock started to say he knew John's life story, but decided against it.

"Ok, then tell me something about yourself." Sherlock sat in the chair beside the bed and clasped his hands under his chin. John sat still for awhile, trying to decided what to say.

"When...when I was ten, my mother told me what I was and I ran away because I was scared." John studied the blanket covering him. "I shifted forms for the first time and couldn't change back for three days." John met Sherlock's icy stare with his deep blue one. "Will you tell me something about you? Please?"

Sherlock paused, unsure. He was trying to be, well, not himself. He doesn't do "comforting" very often, only when trying to get information from people. But John looks hopeful for the first time, so he decides to oblige. Just this once.

"When my powers first manifested themselves, I set my room on fire." Sherlock saw the corners of John's lips twitch as if he wants to laugh. "Not on purpose, of course. Though I will always treasure the look on my brother's face when I told him what happened. Does that little anecdote satisfy you?"

John nodded silently.

"Good. I will call my brother. He owes me a few favors and he can get the hospital to let you out." Sherlock pulled out his cellphone.

* * *

John looked around at the room he would staying in. It had a bed with some spare blankets from Mrs. Hudson until he got some of his own. A chest of drawers was in the corner, empty, and a lamp on the bedside table. John ran his hands over the clothes that Sherlock had put on the bed for him, plain cotton pajamas that looked like they had never been worn. A gift from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had said, a silly one since he rarely slept.

John walked back downstairs to where Sherlock sitting watching TV. He was yelling at the host about the results of a paternity test or something. He tore his gaze from the screen to look at John, hair still wet from the long shower he had taken, wearing the blue pajamas that were large on him, making him look even younger.

"Come here, I'll heal you." Sherlock stood and gestured for him to sit. John hesitantly made his way over, taking the seat Sherlock had just vacated. "Remove your shirt, please."

John carefully unbuttoned and removed it, wincing when he ribs hurt. The doctor had certainly been unhappy to let him out. He wondered just who Sherlock's brother was to have such power. Sherlock reached out, his hands hovering over the two largest bruises on John's ribs.

"John? May I?" Sherlock asked. John was confused for a moment until he remembered Sherlock's earlier promise. He nodded quickly. Sherlock's warm hands rested on his ribs, and a warm feeling spread throughout John's body. His bones healed, bruises losing their sting and his skin knit itself back together. Finally John felt Sherlock's hands move away and he stretched to feel all of his muscles working properly again.

"Thank you."

"Can I ask you a question John?" Sherlock didn't wait for John to answer. "When you take the form of a dog, what happens to the clothes you're wearing?"

"I don't know, they're just there when I change back. Part of my familiar magic." John said slowly, no one had ever asked him about that before. Sherlock looked thoughtful.

"Interesting. And which form do you prefer, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I like them both, I guess. I can go more places as a man. I have heightened senses as a dog, but I can't speak. And my thoughts are far simpler, a dog's thoughts. But I can communicate mentally with my master if I am bonded to him. But even when I'm in this form, I exhibit traits of a dog. And it kind of feels like, sometimes when I've been in one form for a long time I just have to change. Like a itch that won't go away." John babbled. Sherlock sat in the other chair, studying john intently.

"Explain what you mean by canine traits."

"I have better senses than humans. I can hear things from far away, smell things no one else can, the usual." John paused. "Um...you know, pack mentality. I need to have an alpha." John mumbled.

"Really?" Sherlock looked intrigued.

"But familiars choose their masters. We trust them to care of us, and to let us take of them. It's supposed to be mutual." John bit his lip. "I have a choice, I can choose to have a master or not. That's why it hurts so much to have a one-sided bond."

Sherlock felt anger stirring. He wanted to go to John and comfort him, but he wasn't sure how.

"John, for the record, I will never force you to do anything." Sherlock said, leaning forward in his chair. "I may be an unpleasant bastard, but not that kind."

John smiled, the first Sherlock had seen. It was small, and hesitant, but it was there.

"Do you...do you mind if I change forms? My mast- _he,_ told me to stay in human form and I couldn't disobey him. I've been in this form for weeks." John looked at Sherlock. "I just don't want to make you uncomfortable. I'm a bit more...affectionate as a dog. Breed trait."

"It's alright John. I'm a sorcerer. I know what familiars do." Sherlock answered. John crumpled in relief. And then there he was, the brown Australian Shepard dog. It- He, Sherlock reminded himself, he looked at Sherlock with those blue eyes, floppy ears twitching. He laid down, resting his head on his furry white paws, drifting to sleep. Sherlock watched him for awhile and then decided to check on his experiments in the kitchen. "Would you like something eat, John?"

John's ears pricked up, fully alert now. He hopped down from the chair and trotted over to the kitchen. Sherlock regarded the contents of the refrigerator and decided he needed to tell Mrs. Hudson to go shopping.

"I think the best I can do is eggs and toast. Is that alright with you?" Sherlock asked John, feeling only slightly silly talking to a dog. But John's eyes were still so human it was easy to forget about the fur. John's tail wagged and Sherlock took that as a yes. As Sherlock prepared the food, he decided that perhaps he should consider convincing John to stay for awhile.

It was nice change from the constant loneliness.

* * *

John was laying on his side, full of wonderful yellow eggs and buttery toast, warm and safe for the first time in a long time. Sherlock was making relaxing music with his instrument in the corner, and John's ear twitched lazily as he listened. His eyes drifted closed, the sounds fading away. When he opened them some time later, Sherlock was gone. John sniffed the air, moving towards the largest concentration of Sherlock's smell. He noticed other smells as well: old tea, lingering traces of toast and eggs, decaying flesh, Mrs. Hudson's perfume, formaldehyde, among others he's never smelled before.

Sherlock was his his room, sprawled across his bed. It seemed that all of the magic he had used had tired him out more than he let on. John approached the bed and jumped up, spinning around until he laid down at Sherlock's feet. He was safe here.

Sherlock was here.


	3. The room upstairs

Sherlock woke two hours after John took his place at his feet. The strange weight at the foot of his bed, while highly unexpected, was surprisingly pleasant. John was still asleep as Sherlock slipped out of bed and made his way to the kitchen.

As he was preparing his tea, he checked his phone.

One new message:  
I need John's statement. I coming to 221b around 10 a.m.-Greg

Sherlock checked the time. 10:15. He heard footsteps on the stairs and Lestrade appeared in the door.

"Sherlock, good morning." He looked around. "Where's Mr. Watson?"

"He's..." Sherlock fumbled. He's a dog, Sherlock thought to himself.

"I'm here." John appeared, hair tousled and eyes bleary. "Hello, Detective Inspector."

"Call me Greg." John nodded. "I need your statement for my report."

"Um...ok." John nodded and sat down in the red armchair. "What do you need to know?"

"John, would you care for some tea?" Sherlock interrupted, giving John a chance to collect his thoughts. He was still slightly in dog-mind. But he nodded gratefully.

"Mr. Watson-" Lestrade started.

"John."

"Ok, John. When did Mr.-" He paused and checked his notes. "Mr. Thomas Strider, abduct you?"

"About..." John thought for a moment. "Six months ago?"

Lie, Sherlock thought to himself. John had not been taken by this "Mr. Strider", not directly. He was taken by a modern version of slave traders and then sold to Strider. But that would be difficult to explain. Sherlock found himself impressed by John's quick thinking.

"Alright, how did it happen?"

"He broke into my flat and hit m over the head with something. When I woke up, I was tied up in his basement." John shuddered. "He never told me why he chose me. He just liked having someone to order around. I was his slave. I never even knew his name until now."

That was true enough, Sherlock figured. He watched Lestrade write John's words down, and John shifted uncomfortably.

"John, I know you probably don't want to talk about this. But I need to know some details about your captivity." Lestrade cleared his throat. "You were pretty badly injured when Sherlock found you."

"My mast-um...Thomas liked to 'punish' me if I disobeyed. Or when he was bored. Or in a bad mood." John's eyes clouded and his posture collapsed. This was the moment Sherlock handed him his tea, milk and no sugar. John took it gratefully, sipping the hot liquid.

"Well, that should be enough. He's confessed to the bank robbery and to abducting you. I don't think you'll even have to testify if this goes to court. Open and shut case." Lestrade stood, and John did too. "Hope you feel better soon."

John shook the police officer's outstretched hand, as did Sherlock.

"Always a pleasure, Detective Inspector." Sherlock called after the retreating man.

"I thought that maybe today I should start looking for a place to stay." John said quietly. Sherlock stiffened.

"If you want to." Sherlock said finally. John took a step towards him. "I have enjoyed your company."

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively.

"Breakfast?" Sherlock redirected. "I'm afraid all I have is eggs and toast or cereal again."

John inwardly sighed. "Breakfast would be nice."

The air in the flat was awkward and tense, Sherlock ignoring John unless directly spoken to. John decided to take a nap to just pass the time more than anything else. Sherlock was in a dark mood that honestly scared John somewhat. He laid down on the bed upstairs and closed his eyes.

 _"Wake up, Johnny-boy!" His master stood above him, holding his collar. "Did you really think you got away from me?"_ _John felt a searing, blinding pain spread through his arm. A red symbol was carving itself into the soft flesh.  
_

_"No, PLEASE!" John screamed. "Leave me alone! I got away from you! I got away!"_

_"You'll never get away from me. You've been naughty. You need to be punished." Master took a step forward. "Come here."_

_"No! No, I won't!" John resisted the pull to his master. "I was released! Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"  
_

"John!" Sherlock ran up the stairs to John. He had been trying to focus on an experiments to take his mind off of John. He had been trying to get a grip on his emotions before he destroyed anything on accident. Then he heard John crying out for him. He was scared.

Sherlock entered the room just as John sat straight up and opened his eyes.

"John," Sherlock called as he made it to the bed side. John turned and lunged himself at the sorcerer, wrapping his arms around his neck and burying his face in his chest, still halfway on the bed.

"I'm safe. I'm safe." John muttered to himself, over and over. Sherlock awkwardly patted John's back, and then remembered what John had said about retaining his canine traits. Slowly, Sherlock stroked John's hair. John calmed almost instantly, breathing deeply. "Here is safe."

"You're safe here with me." Sherlock confirmed. "You will always be safe here."

"Sherlock, I don't want to leave." John said, finally releasing Sherlock. "I don't want to burden you, and I barely know you at all. But I don't want to leave." John's eyes were shiny with tears. Sherlock moved to sit on the bed next to John.

"John, you don't have to leave." Sherlock said with difficulty. He was not accustomed to being so open with someone, and if he wasn't careful something might explode. John's eyes filled with such hope that Sherlock knew he needed to choose his next words carefully. "If you wish to stay here with me, you can. But there are things about me that make for an unusual flatmate."

"I'm a dog. I think I win." John joked half-heartedly. Sherlock smiled.

"Yes, a lovely Australian Shepard. Highly loyal and friendly. Sheds a great deal. But I can overlook that." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "I can be moody, quiet for days on end, I rarely eat or sleep and I am married to my work."

"I can live with that." John wiped at the last remnants of tears.

"Good. First things first. You need some clothes. Mrs. Hudson will take you shopping." Sherlock jumped up to find Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, one question. Do you like solving crimes?"

"Um...yes?" John replied.

"Marvelous." Sherlock said. "Mrs. Hudson! Mr. Watson will take the room upstairs!"


	4. Jumpers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that I am also writing this story on fanfiction.net, however it will be slightly different here. A bit darker and longer. Just so you know. But I am writing both.

"I have never seen so many cable knit jumpers in one place before." Sherlock observed as John unpacked the clothes he had just bought.

"I like jumpers. They're warm, like fur." John paused and looked at Sherlock. "I'll pay you back, I promise."

"No need, John. Just help me solve crimes, I'll take it out your paycheck." Sherlock smirked, still making no move to help John put his clothes in the chest of drawers. His new flatmate had borrowed a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that Sherlock had once worn as a disguise on a case to go shopping. Now he was wearing a light-brown cable-knit jumper with a new undershirt, and one of many new pairs of jeans. Mrs. Hudson had obviously had a great deal of fun helping John spend money. He would have to remember to get her a bottle of wine as thanks.

"Um...Sherlock..." John walked over to his new friend and stood close to him, rubbing the back of his neck shyly. Finally he just hugged him, pinning Sherlock's arms to his sides. "Thank you for everything."

"You have nothing to thank me for." Sherlock said. John released him, and shook his head but didn't reply. A smile danced on his features even though his blue eyes were still sad.

"I really, really do. You could have left me there, or sold me back into the blackmarket, or..." John stumbled over the latter. Sherlock's eyes flashed with anger at whomever had made this man so distrustful. It was miracle that he trusted Sherlock at all.

"Who really took you, John? Did you see your captors?" Sherlock asked, sensing an interesting case.

"I don't know. All I know is that there were more like me, and they kept us drugged. It was cold and dark where they kept us." John shivered, squeezing his hands together. "There was nothing I could do. They had me for a month before I was sold to _him_."

"I'll alert Mycroft that there is a black market contact somewhere in London. He'll be thrilled to find out who it is." Sherlock mused aloud. "Not much I can do beyond that at this point."

John sighed. Then he brightened.

"Would you like some tea, Sherlock? I know I could use some," John looked happy. Sherlock supposed that perhaps John was just exercising his regained freedom. From what he had deduced about his "master", tea was not a luxury afforded to John.

* * *

John was in dog form again, lying contentedly on the red armchair. Sherlock was doing something unusual. Something called a "mind palace". John yawned and stretched from his position, reveling in his lazy contentedness. Sherlock's arm was hanging down from sofa, his hand motionless a few inches above the floor. John crawled down from the chair and made his way over to the hand, nuzzling it gently. He laid down beneath it, Sherlock's motionless fingers touching the fur on his back.

That was nice. John liked the soft touch. His old master had been so cruel. All his touches caused pain. And fear. Not here though. Not with Sherlock. Sherlock didn't cause pain.

Actually, his fingers were now stroking John's fur, starting from the nape of his neck and trailing down his back. John sighed happily. Safety. Friend.

Alpha.

* * *

Sherlock was deep in his mind palace, constructing a room for John. It was patterned off of his room in the flat and coming along nicely. Sherlock decided to return to the real world to check on John. The first thing he noticed was that John was not in the chair he had been in before. Then he felt the soft fur beneath his fingers. John had positioned himself under his hand, letting the pale extremity just rest there. Sherlock slowly moved his hand down the fur, comparing it to that of his beloved former pet, Redbeard. John was much...well, fluffier, though Sherlock hoped he never had to say it out loud. John's eyes fluttered open for a second, then he sighed and closed them again.

Sherlock noticed that John seemed to be smiling, a highly endearing trait of breeds like Australian Shepherds. His ribs were still a little too prominent for hi liking, something that he had noticed in John's human form as well. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He may need to eat more himself to get John back up to weight.

"Woo hoo, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson appeared from downstairs. "I got you a few things from the store...Sherlock, who's dog is that?"

"Oh, um..." Sherlock hesitated. John sat up, watching the landlady with friendliness. "He was abandoned by a suspect. I brought him here."

"Oh, you poor dear. Come here." Mrs. Hudson chimed, bending down. John shared a playful look with Sherlock and then went over to nuzzle the proffered hand. She smiled and fussed over him. "Sherlock, he's skin and bones. You need to feed him."

"I know."

"And he needs a proper collar and tags, young man. And I'll not clean up after him, he's your responsibility. And don't hand it off to John, he just moved in." Mrs. Hudson warned, still scratching behind John's ear. John sent him a look that seemed to say, I like her.

"Yes, fine! Mrs. Hudson, if you don't mind, I'm busy." It sounded rather ridiculous coming from a man that was still in his dressing gown at four in the afternoon.

"Are you keeping him?"

"Yes, as long as he'll stay. Now get out." Sherlock shut the door behind her. "Well this will be interesting."

John stood and walked over, now in human form again. He was laughing, a silly sound Sherlock decided.

"She seems nice. She has no idea about you, does she?"

"Of course not. The signs are staring her in the face and she still has no idea." Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal. "But she is the only landlady that will tolerate me, partly because I helped her out once."

"You seem to help a lot of people." John said as he sat down in his cahir again.

"No, I solve crimes. Helping people, as you put it, is a side effect." Sherlock pointed out.

"You helped me." John countered. Sherlock smiled with John, but frowned when john's expression changed. "I don't want to wear a collar."

"What?" Sherlock was cunfused. That was a little unexpected.

"Your landlady said I needed to wear a collar. I don't want to wear one, only bonded familiars wear collars." John explained quietly. "I didn't like it."

Sherlock studied John for a moment. He looked small, lost in memories, even younger than he really was.

"I have no right to ask you to wear a collar. You are not my pet, you are my friend, John. You don't have to do anything like that for me." Sherlock said softly, trying to make John understand. "It's not like she actually expects me to do it."

John looked like he wanted to say something, but he decided to change the subject.

"Do you know anyone with a familiar?" John was curious. Sherlock obviously wasn't bonded, and while that made John inexplicably happy, he seemed relatively calm about it all.

"My brother Mycroft is bonded. Her name is Anthea. She's his assistant, too. Takes the form of an Egyptian Mau." Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh at the wrinkling of John's nose at the mention of a cat. "She's not my biggest fan and won't answer my questions about familiars. It's the closest thing to a friend I think Mycroft is capable of having. You wouldn't know it by watching them in public, but Mycroft will kill anyone who harms her."

"Why don't you have a familar?" John blurted out. "I-I mean, I know that only a few sorcerers have familiars, but I would have thought that you...I mean, you're so powerful. I would have thought that you would have attracted a lot of attention among us. Sorry, babbling..." John trailed off. Sherlock waved it off.

"You know how it works. I can't just choose a familiar at random, they would have to choose me. And who would want me as a master?" Sherlock said casually. 

 


	5. Memories Resurface

"Sherlock, I can't let him in. You're not allowed in there, much less John." Lestrade said helplessly as Sherlock just strode past with John in tow. "No offense," Lestrade added to John. John shrugged and pointed to Sherlock.

"He said he needed an assistant and that Anderson wouldn't work with him. Who's Anderson?" John asked Lestrade as he walked towards the crime scene. Sherlock snorted.

"He's a moron." Sherlock answered. Said forensics expert turned with a sneer.

"You again. You know, we can do our jobs without you prancing about, contaminating evidence." John took in the harsh body language of the older man and decided that Sherlock had only slightly exaggerated Anderson's hatred for him. Anderson watched Sherlock with such venom that John almost growled at him. Sherlock approached the body, lying face down on the bank of the Thames.

"Anderson, go away. I can't think with you breathing so close to me." Sherlock bent down, almost on all fours to observe the body. John's senses kicked in, and he subtly smelled the air. Traces of cologne, a common cheap brand, Anderson's scent. The beginnings of decay, dead for around twenty-four hours, the victim.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked Sherlock eagerly. Sherlock stood and adjusted his scarf.

"Male, around twenty years old. Kidnapped two to three months ago, more likely the latter. Held in a small space, probably a shipping container converted into cheap housing. His death wasn't part of the plan, mostly likely killed when he tried to escape. Dumped into the river to dispose of the body quickly. John?" Sherlock paused for breath. "Cause of death? You've seen violent deaths in the Army. What do you think?"

John looked to Lestrade for permission. Lestrade just sighed and waved him forward. John knelt and examined the body.

"Blow to the head, perhaps with the butt of a gun. However, most likely the cause of death is drowning." John stiffened suddenly, a change that Sherlock noticed immediately. Suddenly, John stood and ran. After staring in shock after him for a moment, Sherlock followed without so much as acknowledging Lestrade.

* * *

Sherlock found John sitting with his back against the wall of an alley near the crime scene. He was huddled in on himself, shivering, though not with the cold. Sherlock decided something was sending John into shock. He cleared his throat to get John's attention, nearly wincing at the scared, broken look in his friend's eyes. He shrugged off his coat and draped it carefully around John.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked pointedly.

"I'm sorry I ran. I just got scared and I reacted." John took a deep breath before continuing. "He was a familiar. We can smell it on each other. It was faint because he was dead, but he was definitely a familiar."

"That is not something I would have expected you to run from." Sherlock pointed out, joining his friend on the wall.

"It wasn't just that. He smelled...he smelled like the person that kidnapped me. The scent triggered my memory. He was killed by the people who took me, it had to be them!" John was beginning to shake harder. Sherlock digested this information slowly. "Sherlock...will you...I mean, could you take me home? I want to go back to Baker Street."

"Absolutely. Who knows what hideous things have made this alley smell so foul?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose. John huffed a small laugh, and Sherlock took that as a good sign. "Can you walk?"

John stood shakily and nodded, Sherlock's long black coat hanging crookedly off his shoulders. Sherlock helped John put his arms through the sleeves, brushing off John's protests.

"I'm not cold, and you started going into shock. Just wear it." Sherlock wasn't harsh, but it was obvious that he wouldn't take no for an answer. John just nodded and buttoned the coat shut. They walked out of the alley together and Sherlock hailed a cab for them. John was quiet the entire way back to 221b Baker Street, staring blankly out of the window. Even Sherlock couldn't deduce his thoughts, something that scared the detective. John was still shivering slightly, so Sherlock heated the air around him until John was comfortable, but he still avoided looking at him.

Finally they reached the flat, just when Sherlock thought he might lose his patience with John's silence. John was inside and up the stairs before Sherlock had finished paying the cabbie, and Sherlock followed after him hoping to get a better description of the smell that triggered John's outburst. This information would definitely be a good start in finding, and exacting revenge against the people that hurt John and so many other familiars. By the time Sherlock reached the living room, John was nowhere to be seen, so Sherlock went upstairs to John's room and it was also empty. Then it hit him.

"Oh, stupid. Of course." Sherlock scolded himself. He made his way back downstairs to his own room where John was curled up at the foot of his bed, furry head resting on his front paws. Sherlock crawled onto his bed and sat against the headboard, giving John space. "John, I know you're scared."

John's ear's twitched and he lifted his head to look at Sherlock. He looked scared even in canine form, Sherlock noted. His ears were flattened against his head and his posture was submissively small.

"But you're safe here. You're always going to be safe with me because I won't let them hurt you anymore." Sherlock said evenly. "But when you're ready, I need you to tell me what you remember now about your captor's smell. I might be able to use the information to find them and stop them from doing it to someone else. But you don't have to now, I can wait."

John crawled into Sherlock's lap, sighing contentedly as Sherlock used both hands to smooth his fur, rubbing behind his ears occasionally. Sherlock had kept information about dogs in his mind palace, instead of deleting it like many other things. John felt himself dozing off, and he hoped that Sherlock would stay with him this time. Sherlock, his thoughts calmer than he could remember them being, flicked his fingers, shutting off the lights and drawing his curtains closed. (Why Mrs. Hudson continually opened them in the first place, Sherlock did not know since he always closed them immediately.) He leaned his head back against the headboard, resting his hand on John's head.

When Sherlock opened his eyes about an hour later (what a rare occurrence, a nap) John was still lying in Sherlock's lap and Sherlock's hand had slipped from his head to his shoulder. John was still in dog form, which most likely meant he wasn't ready to talk. John looked up as Sherlock squeezed his shoulder, and he smiled his canine smile.

Sherlock groped for his mobile and checked for texts. There was one from Mycroft which he deleted without reading and another from Lestrade, asking if John was alright. Sherlock decided not to answer just yet. Or possibly ever. Either way, he didn't think it was really the police officer's business. And the case of John's kidnapping wasn't really one for the police. It would be difficult to explain why these particular people were being abducted as well as explain why John had lied in his statement. No, Sherlock decided. As much as it pained him to admit, Mycroft was the one he needed for this case. He sent a quick text.

John has possible new info on familiar kidnappings. Bring Anthea.  
-SH

Why do you need me?  
-MH

I could always tell Lestrade. I'm sure he'd be interested in the world of sorcery.  
-SH

I'm busy. I have people to see.  
-MH

Yes and governments to overthrow.  
-SH

This is important.  
-SH

Fine.  
-MH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like some feedback about the story so far. I have a thick skin. If you like something let me know, if you dislike something I will strive to fix it if at all possible.


	6. Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recalls his time in captivity and Mycroft makes an appearance.

"What's your brother like?" John curiously. He knew Sherlock had a brother, though the lack of photographs or any kind of indication of having a brother seemed completely absent from Sherlock's flat.

"He is insufferable and will most likely offer you money to spy on me." Sherlock answered from his place behind his microscope.

"I would never-" John started. Sherlock held up a hand, silencing him.

"I know. But it makes for a potentially amusing way to mess with him. Think of the mischief we could convince him I'm getting into." A positively childish smile crossed Sherlock's face, and John mirrored it. "I should have gotten a cake for this visit."

"Oh, is it his birthday or something?" John asked.

"What? Oh, no. Not his birthday. But Mycroft is on a diet again, and if he's annoying I like to eat cake in front of him." Sherlock pushed back from his microscope. "John, I want you to know that even though my brother is most annoying, irritating, dangerous man you've met, he will listen to you. Any detail, however insignificant, will be of the utmost importance."

"What if he doesn't like me?" John asked in a small voice. Surely family would trump newfound friends. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft doesn't like anyone, except Anthea." Sherlock turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. "Ah, dear brother. Welcome."

John watched a tall man dressed in an impeccable suit, complete with red tie and vest, and carrying a grey umbrella, walk into the flat accompanied by a beautiful woman. She was dressed in a grey business suit that hugged her ample curves luxuriously. She had an air of disinterested importance about her. How like a cat, John thought to himself. John stood and shook Mycroft's offered hand. The man had extraordinary power, just as Sherlock did, and John could feel it in the skin-to-skin contact.

"So this is the man that has moved in with my brother. Tell me, Mr. Watson, how is Sherlock to live with? He hasn't set anything of yours on fire yet, has he?" Not much of an introduction. Mycroft was an unusual person, John decided. Anthea barely looked up from her phone, nodding in John's general direction. The smell of perfume was noticeable on her, an expensive brand that probably cost more than all of John's new clothes combined.

"That was one time, Mycroft. And you deserved it." Sherlock said crossly. "Are you never going to let it go?"

"No." Mycroft said pointedly, both brothers ignoring all else.

"Um, excuse me. But what are you talking about?" John interjected. They ignored him.

"That umbrella was hideous, and besides, I got you a new one," muttered Sherlock. "It wasn't like I set _you_ on fire."

Mycroft pinched his lips together, looking like he had just bit down on something quite sour. John decided he liked Mycroft well enough for the moment, for all the animosity the Sherlock felt towards his brother, John couldn't sense any real hatred between the brothers.

"Yes, well. On to business. I only have a few minutes before I need to get back to work. So much is happening in the world." Mycroft turned to John. "Tell me what you remember about your captivity."

"Um..." John looked at Sherlock, who nodded. John sat in the red chair, the one he was beginning to think of as 'his' more and more, and Sherlock went to stand by its side. "I was at my flat-"

"Let me rephrase: What do you remember _specifically_ about the _people_ who took you?" Mycroft inspected the tip of his umbrella disinterestedly.

"Oh, right. Sorry." John blushed in embarrassment. "Well, the man who took me from my flat was taller than me, and he smelled...strange."

"In what way is that strange?" Mycroft asked, annoyed.

"He smelled like...it's hard to explain." John fisted his hands in his lap. "Is it possible to smell like...like fear? To smell like absolute terror that's so paralyzing you can't even move or scream or try to fight back? Because that's what he smelled like. And that's what the place he took me to smelled like. None of the us were even bound, and we were so scared and drugged that none of us could even..I wanted to escape but he...I..." Sherlock saw the distress in John's features and placed his hand on John's neck to try and sooth him.

"Interesting." Mycroft said, for the first time seeming engaged. Anthea even put down her phone, intrigued by her master's tone of voice. "If what you've described is truly what I think it is...I haven't encountered this type of magic since...Sherlock? Care to explain?"

"Oh, winter of 2007? Siberia, I believe it was." Sherlock said tightly. "John, you are lucky to have survived."

"What, why? What does Mycroft mean, 'this type of magic'?" John looked from brother to brother.

"The warden of a Siberian gulag used an unusual kind of sorcery to subdue some of the most hardened criminals of both the magical and regular world," Sherlock materialized a photograph and handed it to John. It showed a picture of a concrete structure, surrounded by a tall fence that looked electrical and topped with barbed wire. A harsh-looking man stood in front, bald with piercing black eyes.

"And you think it's the same magic that was used on me?" John asked, feeling himself shrink from the two-dimensional gaze that was still frightening. Sherlock removed the photo from John's hands and it disappeared once more. "What kind of sorcery is it?"

"It doesn't really have a name. It's rare, incredibly so, and it has been the magic used by many dictators, serial killers, and the like." Mycroft explained impatiently. "Sherlock, this is no ordinary familiar-trafficker."

"John, did you ever see the leader?" Sherlock asked, his icy grey eyes hard and focused. John flinched.

"Not his face. I heard his voice a few times though over a sound system of some kind." John shuddered. "His voice was...soft. It was so quiet, but it was far more terrifying than any screaming."

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Mycroft's look of 'that's-not-important'.

"That he would skin each and every one of us...that we were nothing but slaves to be bought and sold. We aren't people, we're animals, meant only to augment our master's powers." John's fingers curled tightly into the arm of his chair, and Anthea caught his gaze. "You hear something enough times, you might begin to believe it." She looked positively murderous.

"No, you are not, we know that. But there is a growing number of sorcerers who don't seem to agree." Sherlock replied carefully.

"But no, I never saw his face. I'm sorry." John sighed in defeat.

"I'll pass this information on to the right people. It's more than we had to go on before." Mycroft said as he smoothed his tie. "If that is all, we'll be going now."

"It was...nice? To meet you, I mean." John said awkwardly, suddenly realizing he had just had a breakdown in front of a stranger so powerful he practically thrummed with the same power that Sherlock had.

"Likewise, Mr. Watson." Mycroft nodded at John.

Sherlock ignored his brother as he and Anthea left. John was staring at a spot on the carpet, emptiness in his eyes. Sherlock decided to change the subject.

"John, when I was healing your wounds I saw a scar on your shoulder." John tore his eyes away from whatever he was looking at and focused on Sherlock, so the detective continued. "It looked too old to be from your time with...It looked old." Sherlock faltered.

"Yeah...um, I was in the Army, you know that. I wanted to be a doctor, and the only way to get my training was to join the Army. We didn't have to money for medical school." John paused and placed his hand over the hidden scar. "The doctor of our unit was injured and I was trying to get to him. I got shot."

"And you were invalided home, only to be kidnapped and tortured by a psychopathic small time sorcerer that only wanted to use you to increase his own power." Sherlock finished, then slapped himself mentally. Where had that come from? He was trying to take his mind off things, not bring them up again. John nodded, then he smiled a small smile. "What?"

"And then I met you." John's smile grew. "I know you may think that I would have been better off had none of this happened to me, and I guess that maybe I could have been." Sherlock's eyebrow rose, unsure as to what John was trying to say. "But when I got back from Afghanistan, I was so alone. My parents are gone, my sister is God knows where drinking God knows what kind liquor, and my therapist was annoying and overpaid."

"So...you're...happy that you were a victim of a familiar-trafficking ring?" Sherlock teased lightly. John laughed half-heartedly.

"I guess so." John shrugged.

"Glad to know my company is so desirable." Sherlock deadpanned. John's smile reached his eyes this time.

* * *

Later, after Sherlock had ordered take-out curry for John and watched him eat while picking at his own, John crawled into bed completely exhausted. Talking to Mycroft had really dragged his buried memories to the surface.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, not even under the covers, replaying John's words from earlier and trying to deduce what he could. Suddenly he heard a noise at his door and saw John standing there, clutching a blanket around himself.

"Sherlock, can I...?" John choked on a sob. Sherlock beckoned for him to enter. John hesitated. "I'm sorry, I don't want to bother you if you're busy."

"John, come here." Sherlock said gently, patting the bed next to him. John flushed but obeyed. "It isn't surprising that you had a nightmare after today."

"I have seen people bleed out in the desert and stitched up horrific wounds." John snuggled down under the blankets on Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock started stroking his hair. "I was a soldier. I should be able to handle this."

Sherlock remained silent, not sure what to say to John. John was slowly relaxing next to him, his breathing evening out as he fell back asleep. He had only been asleep for an hour when his eyes flew open and he let out a strangled scream.

"Sherlock!" John reached out and felt warm hands grab his own.

"I'm right here." A soothing baritone answered, so different from the voice in his dreams. John nodded, still half asleep.

"Don't let them take me back!" John tightened his hold on Sherlock, already falling back to sleep.

"I won't." Sherlock soothed. "I promise."

John nodded sleepily and fell back onto the pillow. Sherlock smoothed his hair back, stroking his neck until John calmed.

"Please keep me." John whispered softly as he slipped under. Sherlock almost wondered if he had imagined it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could draw. *sighs*


	7. Bruises

John stared at his ceiling, trying to sleep. He had heard Sherlock leave an hour ago to pick up something from St. Barts, and John was relatively sure that he didn't want to know what it was. He drifted off for a while until he heard an unfamiliar footstep.

John stared at the man in the door to his room. He leered back at the smaller man lying in bed, still in his pajamas, pointing a gun at him. The taller, heavier man approached the bed, his eyes gleaming with a light that John didn't like.

"I see the great detective has got himself a pet." He snarled. "Of course he did. How much did he pay for his own personal slave?"

John forgot his fear and replaced it with fury.

"Sherlock is my friend." John tensed to spring. "And I am not his slave." John said through gritted teeth.

"No? But you were Thomas's slave." He laughed at John's wince at the sound of his old master's name. "Maybe after I take care of Sherlock for my boss, he'll let me keep you."

John steeled himself against the wave of revulsion he felt. This man smelt of fear and death, and old food. And he didn't like the way he was staring, as if John were a piece of meat to be devoured.

"You won't hurt Sherlock. I won't let you." John lunged at the man, taking him by surprise as they both fell to the floor. John landed on top and landed a strong punch to the intruder's face before he was flipped over. John struggled on the floor with the intruder as two hands squeezed his throat.

"You don't have much of a say in the matter, little doggy." John saw spots as his air supply dwindled and his windpipe was closed. "I'm Ricky Strider. You abandoned my brother."

John jabbed a finger into "Ricky's" eye, gasping and choking as the fingers around his neck loosened. He used Ricky's surprise to once again pounce at the larger man, knowing his advantage of surprise would only last so long. Unfortunately, he felt another pair of hands grab at his shoulder and haul him backwards. He cried out as his scarred shoulder was wrenched, scar tissue straining and joint popping. Then he felt electricity shoot through him, arching through the second pair of hands right into his muscles.

"He's a fighter, isn't he?" The new voice said, laughing. Ricky growled, rubbing his eye belligerently.

"You do realize I was a soldier," John gasped out as his body recovered, still wheezing through his damaged throat and his voice was raspy.

"You were a doctor." Ricky sneered.

"I was a medical assistant." John said painfully, knowing that he should stop aggravating the damage to his throat. "And I had bad days."

The new man laughed, wrenching John up again by his already painful shoulder, slapping a pair of handcuffs onto John's wrists, leaving his arms bound in front of him. The metal was laced with runes, blocking John's transition to his animal form. John struggled against them as they clicked shut, earning another painful electrical jolt. John's back arched and he cried out, biting back most of his scream.

"Bastard scratched my cornea, Chris." Ricky muttered unhappily. "When's Holmes getting here?"

"Not sure. We'll wait for him downstairs. How's that sound, Johnny?" Chris held the cold muzzle of a gun up to John's neck. "Let's go."

* * *

Sherlock looked at the door to 221B. It was wrong. Minute traces of magic around the lock from unlocking it. Whomever had broken in had cast the spell was skilled, Sherlock deduced. Sherlock felt dread pooling in his stomach. John was in there.

* * *

He walked in, hands clasped behind his back. John had heard the familiar footsteps on the stairs and had wanted to cry out but his lips had been sealed. Literally. Ricky had sealed his lips shut with a wave of his hand. John was in a plain white t-shirt and checkered pajama pants, making him look small and young.

Sherlock took in John's bruised neck and the way he was holding his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes narrowed minutely at the pain he could see in John's eyes, though he could also see fury boiling in them too.

"I assume that you have come to, as they say, 'teach me a lesson', or 'make an example out of me', or whatever other idiotic things you have come up with." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Chris and Ricky shared a glance, grinning.

"We're going to take him with us." Ricky stated, missing the way Sherlock's fingers twitched. "Now that you've removed the bond, John's worth a lot of money again."

"I think you've underestimated me and overestimated yourselves. Mostly the latter." Sherlock said dismissively. "John? Are you alright?"

John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock still saw the way that his friend's eyes had flashed with fear at the thought of being taken back. Sherlock smiled dangerously, causing the two men that had invaded his home and hurt his friend to glance nervously at each other. Sherlock barely seemed to move as he slammed into Ricky, catching him off-guard. He headbutted Chris viciously, throwing a burst of energy at him. Chris flew into Ricky, warded ropes materializing to secure their arms and legs while blocking their magic.

Sherlock stood and straightened his coat. "Morons."

John sighed in relief, stretching his jaw as his lips unsealed. Sherlock released John from the handcuff and helped him over to the sofa.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, some worry creeping into his clinical tone.

"I'm fine." John rasped, his vice still damaged.

Hands ghosted over the bruises, spreading the warmth of healing. John unconsciously leaned into the touch, shuddering as the night's events came crashing down fully on him. Sherlock finished his ministrations, stroking the soft hairs at the base of John's neck.

"Sherlock, they were here to hurt you. Because of me."John said, his voice fixed. "Because I'm here."

"They didn't stand a chance. They must have aggravated their boss to be sent after me." Sherlock pulled John closer as the smaller man began to shake to examine the bloodied, busted skin of John's knuckles and stroked the warm healing magic over them. "You fought them. Quite well, if the state of your knuckles and the large one's face are anything to go on."

"Like I told them. I was a soldier." John curled into himself, nursing his shoulder. Torn ligaments, possibly dislocated. "Thank you."

"I hardly think this merits gratitude." Sherlock said. "John, I know you hurt your shoulder. Let me see."

John nodded and lifted his shirt with his good arm, wincing as he did so. Sherlock placed his warm hands on the damaged flesh, prodding gently to find the extent of the damage. John held his breath at a particularly painful touch to the scar tissue. Sherlock muttered an apology, beginning his healing process. This was a taxing use of his skills, and a bead of sweat rolled down his face.

"That's fine, Sherlock, it feels much better." John pushed Sherlock's hand away, but his shorter fingers remained twined in the thinner ones of his friend's. "Sherlock...?"

Sherlock was staring into his eyes intently, as if trying to memorize every detail. John felt naked under that gaze, knowing that every detail of his life was easily discernible to his flatmate. John felt a spark in his stomach, falling deeper into Sherlock's gaze as the spark grew into a flame.

"Yes John? What is it?" Sherlock asked quietly, not able to tear his gaze away from those beautiful blue eyes even if he had tried.

"Sherlock...you're the one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is now a slash story. So...look forward to fun times in the future.


	8. Keep me

"Sherlock...you're the one." John's breathes came in short bursts. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion, but he didn't avert his gaze or blink.

Then, measured and emotionless, Sherlock replied, "No, I'm not."

John felt the weight of the world crash down on his shoulders and gazed for a moment longer into Sherlock's beautiful eyes. Then he bolted, sprinting up the stairs to his room and slamming his door. Sherlock blinked in surprise and sat where John had left him. As he did now in all situations when he needed to think, Sherlock entered his mind palace and made his way to John's room.

"Trouble in paradise, dear brother?" Mycroft's voice floated into his thoughts. Sherlock jerked from his reverie and glared at the man he happened to share genetics with.

"Where are they, Mycroft?" Sherlock sneered. "You must have gotten remarkably creative to conceal your cameras from me this time."

"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed patiently. "If you want to find them, you'll have to put forth the effort. I realized that it was up to me to remove your... _unsavory_ guests that have overstayed their welcome."

Sherlock spared a quick glance at the two unconscious men on his floor. Two of Mycroft's men silently were clearing them away. How like Mycroft, Sherlock thought. So efficient and tidy even when he was being annoying.

"How long ago did John go upstairs?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Mycroft looked momentarily confused before answering.

Mycroft checked his watch. "Sherlock, John has been upstairs in his room alone for over an hour. What have you been doing down here that prevented you from fixing your most recent mistake?"

Sherlock didn't answer and instead headed for the stairs. Mycroft rolled his eyes. He was used to his little brother's penchant for ignoring him. Mycroft followed his employees' path and entered a black car that was waiting for him. He had questions for the men that had been sent to 221B.

* * *

John was curled up in bed, tears threatening. He had fled from Sherlock because he was overwhelmed by the complete lack of feeling in Sherlock's voice, the deadness in his eyes. And Sherlock hadn't followed him. Not that it was really in Sherlock's nature to chase people unless they were actually running away from the law.

_It's not like I have any right to expect him to follow. I did just say something cryptic enough to be from a bad movie and then I ran away right after. He probably thinks I'm insane. And who wouldn't think that?_

John tugged his legs closer into his chest and tried to shut off his thoughts. Sherlock had said he didn't want him.

_Why doesn't he want me?_

John's eyes drifted shut and he slipped into a restless doze.

* * *

Sherlock knocked lightly on John's door, having already heard Mycroft leave. They were alone in the flat. There was no answer, so Sherlock tried the handle. It was unlocked, and Sherlock decided to take the chance and enter the room uninvited. Sherlock froze at the sight of John curled up in his blankets, asleep but muttering softly. Sherlock silently walked over to the bed and laid down behind John, not touching him but close enough to observe the breathing patterns.

Sherlock was measuring the time between each inhale when John began to stir. John felt the weight on the bed behind him and tensed. Sherlock noticed, of course, and reached out a tentative hand to grasp John's. John's fingers were curled into such a tight fist now that his short nails were leaving painful crescents. Sherlock carefully loosened John's fingers, one by one, and stroked the top of John's hand.

"Sherlock..." It sounded like a sob. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Sherlock said, wishing John would roll over and look at him. It was hard to fully judge what John was thinking when his back was turned.

"I messed it up." John sniffed, sounding heart broken.

"John, please look at me." Sherlock released John's hand to gently pull at John's shoulder. It wasn't forceful, and John could refuse to move if he wanted to. John gave in after a moment and rolled onto his other side to face Sherlock. They were both laying on their sides, head on a pillow, just looking at each other. "What do you mean, you messed it up? You've done nothing wrong."

John bit his lip, sad and broken like Sherlock hadn't seen since he had rescued John from that dirt basement. Being the cause of such pain was like a knife in Sherlock's heart.

"This. Us. I-I messed it up. I shouldn't have said anything and definitely not they way I said it. I just dropped a bomb on you with no warning and I-" John was starting to panic. "I have to leave now."

"What?" Sherlock froze, propping himself up on one arm. "You don't have to leave."

"But I do! Because before tonight I was perfectly fine being your friend and nothing more because you were nice to me and saved me and..." John hastily wiped a tear from his cheek. "Now, that won't be enough. I can't be around you now that...now that"

"You don't want me" "You want to bond with me." John and Sherlock finished together. John was shocked by Sherlock's reaction. Where they had been lying with several inches in-between, now John found himself snug against a slender but muscled chest and his face in the crook of a neck that led to a head of black curls.

"Is that what you think, John?" Sherlock asked softly into John's ear, still holding him close. John resisted the temptation to return the embrace even though Sherlock's warmth was soothing.

"It's what you said." John reminded him. "You said that I wasn't the right one."

"No. If you will recall, I said _I_ wasn't the one. Not for you." Sherlock corrected. John peeked out at Sherlock.

"Same thing."

"No, completely different." Sherlock began rubbing his hand up and down John's back, comforting and safe. John burrowed his face back into its cranny of Sherlock's neck. "I can't be the one for you. Because if I am, then that means you would have to stay with me forever. A mutual bond cannot be undone like the one I reversed for you. It's etched into your very soul."

"I know that," John muttered. "I am the familiar here, afterall."

"No, you don't know. I cannot ask you to do this for me, to do this one thing that can never be undone when I mess everything up and make you regret your decision." Sherlock's voice was laced with such sorrow that John finally wove his arms around Sherlock, clinging to him as if to reassure him that he was not going anywhere. "I am used to being alone. It protected me, I thought. No attachments, no one to put in danger. And then I met you. I can't ask you to stay when I can't guarantee your safety, or guarantee that I won't disappoint you. My past is less that clean."

"Sherlock, you..." John finally sat up, leaving a confused and sad-looking Sherlock still lying down. "You complete and utter moron."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock sat up too, meeting the almost playful glint of steel in John's eyes.

"Firstly. You couldn't force me to feel this way about you. You're powerful, but not a god. Secondly, I was lonely too before you found me. You know that. And I know you were lonely too. I have made my choice, and I choose not to let you be lonely anymore. But even more than that, I choose to never be lonely again. I want to feel loved, and special, and needed. And not because I have to ability to make you stronger as a sorcerer but because you want to keep me. I want you to _keep me_ and let me keep you." John finished his rant. "So I offer you myself. Do you accept me as your familiar as I accept you as my master, now and for as long as we survive doing the crazy things we do?"

Sherlock knelt on the bed, facing John. John was also on his knees, but his posture was nothing if not dominant and proud. He was still shirtless from having his shoulder healed, and Sherlock could see the old scar from a bullet far away. John's eyes were strong and proud and a deep shade of blue, nearly black, but Sherlock could see the tension in his shoulder. The fear in his soul that Sherlock would push him away just as Sherlock always pushed everyone away. And Sherlock was tired, so tired, of being alone and being a freak and being looked at as though he were a disease that might be catching. John had never looked at him that way, always exclaiming his amazement at Sherlock's deductions. And that was amazing. So Sherlock gave into his own desires. He parted his lips, power flowing and crackling in the room.

"I accept." Sherlock crashed his lips onto Johns, feeling his passion reciprocated. The bonded wound around John's soul, a tendril of him snaking out to meet the tendril of Sherlock's soul as they twisted around and around, mixing and mingling until they were melded. Separate people still, but joined forever. The deal was done, signed and sealed with a single kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah so many wonderful opportunities in such a slash story.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock woke with the weight of John on top of him and arms wrapped under and around his shoulders. Sherlock's initial instinct was to push John off and get up, but he felt a bone-deep exhaustion in his limbs, and he realized that he now had very little reason to push away his familiar. So he just let John lay on top of him with his arms clutching him close.

He let his gaze travel lazily over the blonde man in his arms. John and he had collapsed after the bonding had finished, after they had kissed with enough passion to make Sherlock explode every lightbulb in the building. John was still sleeping heavily, exhausted from last night's activities and the energy that had spiked through him. Sherlock took the liberty of running one hand lightly through John's hair, smiling when John mumbled and snuggled his face deeper into Sherlock's neck. It was quite...adorable, Sherlock supposed, how John nuzzled in such a canine way even in human form.

There was something new in his mind, Sherlock realized suddenly, and new things did not just appear in his mind like this. Sherlock reached out mentally for it, brushing his consciousness against what felt like...

 _His familiar_.

It was John, the tickling sensation of John's slumber brushing against his thoughts. It was strange and unfamiliar in a way, but it actually wasn't as unfamiliar when Sherlock remembered that it was still John. His John, always there for him now. Sherlock experimented with turning the connection up and down, and found he could control how much he felt John's presence in his mind without ever actually turning it off. Not Sherlock would ever do that even if he could. His phone buzzed in his pocket, reminding him once again that he had passed out with John on top of him without even changing clothes first. He pulled his phone out of his pocket from under John, careful not to wake him.

_Come to the Yard.-MH_

_No. Busy.-SH_

_Yes, I know. But there are some people here that wish to speak with you.-MH_

_You became acquainted last night with them.-MH_

_They wish to speak to you.-MH_

_Don't be childish.-MH_

_Fine. But I'm busy at the moment. I'll be there in an hour.-SH_

_You haven't found my cameras yet.-MH_

_Say hello to John for me.-MH_

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dropped his phone onto the floor under the bed, replacing his arm around John's bare torso. John stirred, yawning sleepily as his eyes fluttered open. He stayed still though, not looking at Sherlock.

Good morning, Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. John's eyes met his, gleaming with mirth.

We're bonded. It's telepathy. Surely you knew about this.

**Yes, of course. I just wasn't expecting it to be so...clear. Actually hearing thoughts as well as emotional transfer.**

"It takes some getting used to, I'm told. Knowing what someone else is thinking all the time." John said aloud. "Though you never seemed to need telepathy for that."

"John. I just wanted to say..." Sherlock stopped and thought for a moment before starting over. "What we did last night, I'm..." Sherlock sighed, frustrated.

"It's alright, we're both tired." John slid from his place on top of Sherlock, and for a moment the sorcerer thought John was getting up. But instead, John just curled into Sherlock's side instead, laying his head on Sherlock's chest. "I still need about three more hours of sleep, I think."

"Sounds excellent." Sherlock began stroking John's neck. "But I need to go to the Yard and speak with our _guests_ from last night."

"Now?" John asked sleepily, trying and failing to keep his eyes open. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and tugged him closer.

"There's a little time." Sherlock replied softly. John smiled and was soon sleeping again. Sherlock stayed there for another half-hour before extracting himself from under John and heading for the shower. When he reemerged dressed and ready to leave, John was still sleeping. Sherlock thought about leaving a note before remembering that John could contact him at anytime without so much a mobile phone.

* * *

"Sherlock," Lestrade followed his consultant as he made his way to the interrogation room holding Ricky Strider. "How's John?"

"He's fine." Sherlock said, waving away the D.I. as he came in sight of his brother. "Which room?"

In there. Remember, Sherlock. I'll be watching," Lestrade warned, not liking the look in Sherlock's eyes. "He will come out of there in the same shape they went in."

Sherlock nodded, meeting his brother's eyes over Lestrade's shoulder. The silent command to stop him before he went too far was conveyed and Mycroft nodded minutely.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Good to see you again." Ricky sneered as the tall, thin man sat in front of him. Sherlock could see runes on the cuffs that were holding him, invisible to the eyes of regulars but blazed with Mycroft's perfect penmanship. Sherlock eyed the man before him, suppressing a smirk at the obvious discomfort in his eye from where John had apparently scratched him in favor of an emotionless glare.

"You came into my flat for a reason," Sherlock stated. Ricky grinned.

"Yeah, to bring the little doggy back to the pound." Ricky's grin stretched wider. "You know, I saw him once at my brother's place. He was eager to show off his new pet."

"Who sent you after John?" Sherlock interrupted. Ricky continued on as if he hadn't heard.

"He wasn't allowed to wear clothes most of the time. Thomas liked to see the brand, remind _John_ of his place at all times. He fought to get away at first."

"Why does your boss want him back, specifically?" Sherlock's voice rose in volume, hands tightening into fists.

"He kept trying to run away and Thomas kept having to order him to come back." Ricky kept ignoring Sherlock, secure in the thought that with regulars watching Sherlock wouldn't try anything. "Johnny-boy had to be broken so he could be used. Would you like me to describe how he screamed when Thomas punished-"

Sherlock had heard enough and grabbed the man's neck across the table. He pulled him up and out of the chair by the collar.

"You seem to think that because you are in a building full of regulars that you are safe from my magic. I hate to tell you, but you are completely wrong. You see, I am not the only powerful person here, and there is a veil over this room. The regulars will see what I want them to see, both with their eyes and on the surveillance cameras." Sherlock's fingers sprouted pale tendrils of magic that wrapped around the man's throat, applying enough pressure to show Sherlock's intentions without actually cutting off any energy. "Now you will tell me who sent you and why. Now."

Ricky's eyes finally looked scared, something that made Sherlock smile a positively psychopathic smirk.

"I don't know his name," The tendrils tightened, cutting off some of his air. "I never even met him face to face."

"How did you receive your instructions? And don't lie to me, I will know," Sherlock warned.

"He texted us. Different phone every week," Ricky's cuffed hands tried to grapple with the magic leaking out of Sherlock's fingers to no avail as his air continued to be cut off bit by bit. "We were just messengers! The delivery service! I swear!"

Sherlock sneered in disgust. The tendrils relaxed and faded and Ricky dropped back into his chair heavily, breathing deeply.

"You delivered innocent people to be tortured and used against their will," Sherlock looked into the camera where Lestrade had been watching a routine interrogation, no magic involved. The veil lifted right as Ricky was confessing. Mycroft's tension eased as his brother regained control over his emotions. The elder Holmes decided that perhaps a transfer to high security holding facility was necessary for both this man and his companion. Their boss didn't sound like the kind to leave many loose ends lying around.

* * *

John rolled over and reached out to where Sherlock had been lying before. The bed was cold and John pondered this for a minute. Sherlock had said that he was going to the Yard, and he figured that Sherlock must have been away for awhile by now. John touched the bond in his mind, feeling the anger that Sherlock was feeling, and the protectiveness that Sherlock felt for John. John smiled at that but he was curious over the cause of such anger.

Sherlock?

**Almost back at the flat.**

I know that. What happened?

**Nothing. Just a friendly chat with some men that had some answers I needed to hear.**

I know something happened. What did they say?

**Very little of use.  
**

Sherlock finally dragged himself back into the flat, as tired as if he had been awake for several days, and he new what that felt like. His strength had not yet fully recovered when he left for the Yard, and another few hours of sleep would have greatly reduced the exhaustion caused by exerting himself with Ricky. John had of course sensed him coming and had put the kettle on when Sherlock was close to the flat. Now he was waiting for Sherlock with a steaming mug that the lanky man took gratefully. Sherlock sat in his black leather chair across from the red one that John had claimed.

"What happened?" John asked softly. Sherlock remained silent, pensive-looking, but John could feel the anger still in Sherlock's mind betraying his calm exterior. "Sherlock?"

"Nothing happened. That is precisely the problem." Sherlock ran the hand not holding a mug of hot tea through his hair in frustration. "There is no direct link between the main traffickers and the deliverymen so there is no way to backtrack from the two imbeciles that hurt you to the sorcerer that controlled you with fear magic."

"Sherlock, that isn't your fault." John sat heavily in his armchair.

"Of course it isn't my fault, I never said it was." Sherlock snapped. "I can't control what happens when a psychopath decides to be very clever when he kidnaps people to sell them into slavery."

John opened his mouth to reply, but closed it when he couldn't find the words. Sherlock was in a mood, and even though John hadn't known Sherlock for very long he didn't need to use their bond to sense his foul mood.

However, he did use his bond to sense that Sherlock wanted contact with him but he didn't want to talk. He just wanted reassurance that John was alright. John slid from his chair, four paws hitting the ground. He padded over to Sherlock and nuzzled his leg before jumping up onto his lap and settling his weight comfortably over Sherlock's skinny legs.

Sherlock momentarily froze, years of conditioning to avoid human contact trying to surface, before shoving it aside to stroke John's fur. The television turned on and Sherlock settled in with John to watch some crap TV while John sent him flashes of soothing emotions.

Show you something?

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, fingers twisted in the fluff of John's back. He was suddenly flash with a memory, a memory that Sherlock at first didn't recognize.

_It was cold and dark, and the was pain. Sherlock was watching John's memory through John's eyes. Then the door opened, and someone came in. A tall man with dark curls and a blue scarf. He could smell the energy on the man, and he was terrified. Another one of master's friends? No, he was asking him what his name was. Trust him? Could he trust this man? Master coming back, coming back for him. The man, Sherlock, calming him, offering to protect him and free him and it works. The brand is gone, and John can't help it. He changes forms because he's just been stuck for so long he needs to change and the man just hold him. He is free. And he will follow this man anywhere._

**When we first met. That was what you were thinking.** Sherlock rubbed John's ears gently.

You saved me. No matter what happens, you have saved me. You'll save the others.

**You can't know that.**

I trust you.

Sherlock laughed slightly. These telepathic conversations still felt so strange. But they were also nice. Sherlock didn't feel alone anymore. Though surely it would get annoying at times, Sherlock doubted it would ever get boring and that was one of the highest compliments Sherlock was capable of giving.


	10. Chapter 10

"John..." The detective blinked sleepily as he woke. Sherlock had nodded off a few hours after getting back from the Yard and slept for a long time while his body recharged with his lap full of Australian Shepard. John had eventually gotten off Sherlock's lap and was reading a book in his chair.

"Yes?" John closed his book, smiling slightly at the rumpled look of the newly awoken sorcerer. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, a serious look on his face. John could sense what Sherlock wanted before he asked, but Sherlock did it anyways.

"You showed me just one small part of your captivity." Sherlock could feel John's apprehension. "You thought I might be one of his friends."

John swallowed nervously and clasped his hands together to stop the tremor in his hand. He nodded and Sherlock waited for him to elaborate, the question ringing through the bond.

"I was always blindfolded when he had company, and usually I was kept downstairs in the basement. He was crazy, but he was also jealous," John took a shuddering breath. "He always seemed to think that someone would try to take me away from him if they could, so only a few people actually saw me."

"You were frightened by the thought that I was one of those few. Why were you scared?" Sherlock asked gently. John hung his head.

"I was scared because Strider's friends weren't any better than he was," John explained, eyes directed to his hands in his lap. "They liked to watched him order me around and hold my arms when he punished me, and they talked about how they should get their own. I was live advertising for their _operation_." John spat the last word.

Sherlock felt his anger flowing, knowing that John could feel it too. John looked so miserable that Sherlock decided he needed to cheer him up. It was an odd feeling, the need to make _someone_ _else_ feel better for reasons that didn't involve getting information or favors. His stomach rumbled painfully, reminding him that he hadn't since...sometime. He couldn't remember.

"Early dinner?" Sherlock asked, already standing to retrieve his coat. John's face brightened, already knowing where they were going.

"Starving," John replied as usual. Sherlock pulled on his long coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. John followed suit, feeling his sadness ebb away. It was hard to be sad now that he had someone like Sherlock.

"He's going to ask if you're my date again," Sherlock said as they hit the street. John smiled at the thought of Angelo placing a candle on their table with a sly wink in John's direction every time they ate at his restaurant.

"And what are you going to say?" John teased. Sherlock just smiled and walked in companionable silence with John the rest of the way to Angelo's. John held the door for Sherlock and Sherlock helped John out of his coat while Angelo greeted them with a knowing smile.

"You're table is ready. I'll get the candle," The jovial chef said happily. Sherlock rolled his eyes but smiled at John. Angelo placed the small candle on the table and winked at John again as if Sherlock couldn't see him.

John ordered the ravioli like he always did, and Sherlock decided to join him and ordered the same thing. This of course made Angelo practically explode. There were few people in the restaurant with them as they were ahead of the dinner rush by about an hour. Sherlock kept sending silly details about the people around them via telepathy, making John stifle his giggles while they waited for their food. Sherlock of course was also talking to him out loud while doing this, making it hard for John to concentrate. When their food arrived, John was famished and so was his "date", as Angelo always called him.

"I have never had this before," Sherlock commented, halfway through his plate. John looked at him incredulously. "What? Usually I just come here to think. I rarely eat anything."

"Then why do you always bring me here?"

"The first time I asked you to dinner, here and not a take-away, you trusted me enough to leave the flat, a place you had come to associate with safety. And then you tried to order the cheapest thing on the menu because you were still convinced that you were an inconvenience, and Angelo brought you enough food to feed a family of five. You looked happy. It's a good memory." Sherlock smirked. "Besides, Angelo's makes the best food that I get for free in all of London."

Sherlock proceeded to turn his attention to the other customers that were filling the restaurant. John smiled silently, watching Sherlock observe the other diners and making deductions about them quietly for John. Or maybe just for himself. John wasn't sure. He had been living with Sherlock for two months by now, and it still amazed him to watch Sherlock use nothing but his wit to unravel people's entire lives. No magic needed.

"John," Sherlock's voice jolted him out of his apparent reverie. "What are you thinking about?"

"Sorry, I was just thinking about how much has happened since I met you. You rescued me, I moved in the next day, you took me to crime scene a week later, and we spent our days and nights chasing down criminals." John smiled at the absurdity of it all. "It's not what regular people do."

"What do regular people do then?" Sherlock said, giving John a half-smile.

"I don't know, eat and sleep and go to work," John waved his hand dismissively. "But I know we aren't normal, even for what we are."

"That, while strangely stated, is something I agree with," Sherlock raised his glass of water to John in a mock toast. John laughed. Sherlock was in a good mood, making him much less serious. Besides, when he starved himself for the work he became cranky. Food always seemed to bring out a different side of him. "Normal is boring."

"You think everything is boring," John said mischievously. Sherlock looked offended.

"I do not think that everything is boring. Just those things that most other people find important," Sherlock clarified. "Like sleeping. And social niceties."

"And astronomy," John added, playfully returning Sherlock's scowl.

"None of that matters, John. What matters to me is the work and..." Sherlock let out a breath and blushed. "And you."

"Well, I should certainly hope so," John replied after a moment. "You are stuck with me, after all."

Sherlock turned his attention to the corner of the restaurant where a young couple was giggling and holding hands over the table. Generally, he found such displays nauseating and he still did, especially since the girl was obviously cheating on her oblivious boyfriend. However, there was something...appealing, Sherlock supposed, about the whole thing. Not the over-compensating public displays of affection obviously, but the idea of having someone in life to rely on and care for.

Eventually, after having a conversation that led to so many different topics that John didn't even recall how they had gotten onto the topic of whether or not specialty honey tasted better than regular honey, they made their way back out into the bustling night. People passed them on the streets and taxis picked up and dropped off their fares. John pulled his jacket closer against the slight wind that was worming its way under his jumper.

"Sherlock, can I ask you something?" John plucked at his coat sleeve nervously.

"Anything," Sherlock said, suddenly serious.

"Are you happy...with me? I know that we sort of...I don't know, rushed, maybe...?" John asked, his face blushing and his eyes watching his feet. "I mean, it's just..."

Sherlock stopped walking and tipped John's face towards him so he could see those blue eyes. He could feel John's question flooding his mind even as John struggled to find the right way to ask it.

"John," Sherlock silenced John's stumbling words. "Shut up.

"Right, sorry," John smiled sheepishly. Sherlock grinned and continued walking as John hurried to catch up again.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sherlock, will you come?" Lestrade was panting a little from running up the stairs. Sherlock was half-dressed by the time Lestrade made it upstairs from the car, and John was stumbling into the room.

"Fine, I'll get a cab," Sherlock said dismissively. But John could feel the excitement bubbling up. He figured that maybe it should concern more than it did that Sherlock was not prancing about the flat with glee at the thought of taking down another murderer.

"What's happening?" John asked, already pulling on his coat. The winter was getting colder and it had been two months since he and Sherlock had bonded in the fall.

"Triple homicide, two men and one woman arranged around a table as if having tea in the park," Sherlock wrapped on his ever present blue scarf. "Definitely the owrk of a methodical, clever murderer with a flair for the dramatic. The dramatic ones are always fun."

"Gruesome," John shuddered. "Have you seen my scarf? It's cold outside."

"Oh, I...needed it for an experiment when you were sleeping," Sherlock looked momentarily regretful. "I'll get you a new one."

John rolled his eyes as he pulled on a beanie hat that Mrs. Hudson had knitted for him. Sherlock and his experiments.

The crime scene really was as gruesome as John had imagined, and yet it was really very clean. Clean enough that Sherlock was getting frustrated. John was examining the woman's body, looking for cause of death. It was hard to judge how long they had actually been dead as they had been subjected to taxidermy. Their glass eyes stared obscenely off into the distance. John suppressed the urge to run away as he examined their forearms, confirming his suspicion as Sherlock watched.

"What do you see?" Sherlock prodded.

"Track marks." John stood. Sherlock nodded. "In both arms, the veins were never missed."

"So she was an addict," Anderson piped in.

"No, they aren't from syringes. They match the diameter of I.V. lines. These people all have the same markings on their arms." John corrected.

"They weren't killed immediately. The murderer kept them alive but most likely heavily sedated to keep them from running away. The preservation methods used on the bodies have all but eradicated any significant evidence. The murderer is most likely male, loner by choice not circumstance, and has access to medical supplies. Probably works in a medical setting in some capacity." Sherlock was frustrated beneath his clinically calm exterior, John could feel it.

"So you have nothing." Anderson sneered. Sherlock set his withering gaze on the annoying man.

"I need more data, Lestrade," Sherlock said in a clipped tone.

"Oi, freak. Just admit that you're stumped," Sally Donovan, John's least favorite member of the force, chimed in. John sent her a poisonous glare.

**She cleaned Anderson's floors again last night.**

_Sherlock, stop! You'll make me giggle, and I can't giggle at a crime scene again._

"Any security footage?" Sherlock asked, leaving John trying desperately to control his smile. Sherlock seemed to enjoy having telepathic conversations with him at crime scenes. Lestrade shook his head. Several of the younger officers and technicians looked like they were going throw up.

"None. No one saw anything, no one heard anything, and no one is saying anything. A jogger found them this morning. At first she thought it was some kind of modern art or something," Lestrade shook his head. "We're dealing with a lunatic."

"A smart lunatic," John added. Sherlock was deep in thought so John continued his examination of the bodies. Something tickled at the back of his mind, a thought he couldn't quite form, something about these people he couldn't place.

"I assume there were no identifications on them." Sherlock was saying. "They're dressed in new clothes. No patterns of wear and tear from washing or use. Come on, John. We need to find out who these people are and what the connection is between them."

"We have people doing that," Sally said. Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode off. John followed, still thinking about the set-up. They got back in the cab that John had asked to wait for them.

_Sherlock, they're like dolls._

**Of course. He keeps them alive and then preserves them to play.  
**

_Jesus that's creepy._

**Yes, but it doesn't get us any closer to their killer.**

_Those I.V. needles were inserted expertly. It would take either a drug addict or at least a nurse to do that with such precision._

**Obviously.**

John sat silently for awhile with Sherlock in the cab as they drove to St. Barts. All three victims had very striking features, John decided, but nothing particular in common. But something was still in the back of his mind, something he couldn't quite grasp.

"John, what is it?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"What?"

"You're thinking about something, something about the victims bothers you." Sherlock looked pointedly into John's eyes.

"There's just something about them, the way they were arranged, I don't know! I just...I think that I've seen it before somewhere," John rubbed his eyes. "I just need to remember."

"Come along, John. The game is on." Sherlock barely waited for the cab to stop moving before he was out the door. John rolled his eyes and handed the money to the cabbie. By the time he caught up with Sherlock, he was already looking at something under the microscope and Molly Hooper the pathologist was handing him a coffee.

Oh, hello John! I got you a coffee too, if you want one," The small woman said with a timid smile. John smiled warmly at her and she handed his the cup.

"You are a lifesaver," John made his way over to where Sherlock was examining what seemed to be a strand of hair. "What's that?"

"Hair from the woman's head. See anything unusual?" Sherlock moved aside so John could take a look.

"It's been colored," John guessed.

"Bleached from a darker color, most likely a dark brown, to blonde and then re-dyed to a specific shade of auburn." Sherlock took over the microscope again. "I am certain I'll find the same thing with the others."

"He fixes them," John mumbled. Sherlock sent a question in his mind. "I mean, you saw the victims. All very striking in appearance, almost like airbrushed models. Every feature is perfect. He takes people that are already good-looking and then he fixes their flaws, as he sees them. Hair, eye color, skin, everything."

"Of course, John! A God-figure. Fixing the mistakes that God could not," Sherlock started muttering to himself as he set to work. John checked his watch. This was going to be a long day. "John, please research any similar cases. Anything that looks like it might be remotely related, bring to me. I'll sort it out."

John shrugged at Molly who was looking somewhat smitten with Sherlock, as always, and went outside to find an Internet cafe to research murders. Should be interesting.

* * *

Sherlock had found the person that he believed committed the murders, a plastic surgeon from America. That was why it had taken so long for John to find the right connections since he had made the mistake of researching British cases alone first. Similar murders had been discovered in the past decade in America, beginning with bodies that were merely posed and leading up to bodies that were preserved. Of course, based off that and some long ladder of deductions, the detective had come up with only man that had the skill, the opportunity, and the timeline to have committed such murders. Sherlock had texted him to come back to Bart's immediately to, as John could only assume, bounce ideas off him until inspiration on how to find their man came to him.

And he had been making his way back on foot when he bumped into someone and felt a sharp prick on his arm. Most people would just brush this off, rub at the pain for a moment maybe and then move on. But John knew what it was. He knew what it felt like to be stuck with a syring, and then he felt an arm going around his waist. He was being dragged away as his limbs grew heavy and his mouth grew numb. Panic flared up inside as he heard a voice saying "No, he's fine, just a bit of food poisoning" to a curious passerby. The voice got further and further away as John felt himself pushed into the back of a cab. His thoughts, muddled by the drugs, were blurring together even as he tried to call out to Sherlock.

**John what's happening? What's going on?**

_Sherlockhelpmehehasmedruggedcabhelpme_

**John I'm coming don't fall asleep! Stay awake!**

So John did, hanging on to his wakefulness with all his strength, his only chance at having Sherlock find him in time.

This murderer was about to find out what happens when someone messes with a bonded familiar.

_**To be continued...** _


	12. Chapter 12

"Wakey wakey," A voice pierced the veil of drugs that was only just beginning to lift around John. John tried to move his arms but found that he was strapped tightly to a gurney or stretcher of some kind which meant he couldn't move his arms or change forms without injuring himself. He groaned with nausea. "I know you work with that detective fellow, the one that was called in to help the police find me."

John forced himself to focus on the man standing in front of him. The fuzziness on the edges of his vision was receding and he could feel Sherlock's determination to find him getting closer. He needed to buy just a few minutes for Sherlock to find him

**John, who is he?**

_I don't know. Not a sorcerer, just a psychopath.  
_

"Who are you?" John asked his captor. At least, that's what he tried to say. It came out a bit slurred.

"I am an _artist_ seeking what all artists seek." The man paused and smiled at John. "Perfection. Humans are the apex of human evolution and the pinnacle of beauty. But even so, flaws are inevitable. I correct these flaws."

Sherlock was outside.

"You killed three people in London and more in America," John pointed out, eyes widening as the "Artist" prepared a large syringe with a wicked-looking needle.

"I _preserved_ them. Every artist wants his work to last," The Artist pulled on a pair of latex gloves and picked up the syringe. "I have been trying for many years to achieve perfection. And each project gets closer and closer. But my work is only as good as my medium."

"I hate to break it to you, but you can't make me perfect," John pointed out, relishing the annoyance on the Artist's face.

Sherlock was inside, running.

"Who said you were my next project?" He sneered.

John's eyes widened. Sherlock. That was his main goal. Of course, he had seen Sherlock at the crime scene when he went to observe the reaction his "art" got. Sherlock was all chiseled cheekbones and long limbs. Of course the Artist had decided that Sherlock was the perfect medium for his pursuits.

"You won't get him," John said harshly. "You have no idea what he's capable of."

"I'll soon find out. Pity you won't get to see the final result." He raised the needle high over John's heart. One sharp downward motion was all it would take.

John squeezed his eyes shut.

The door exploded inward and shattered into what could only be described as sawdust. Sherlock strode in and fixed his murderous gaze on the man that had taken his companion. Sherlock had heard the whole exchange through John's ears.

"That's hardly fair, now is it?" Sherlock said smoothly. "Using him to draw me out and then denying him the chance to observe your work?"

"Mr. Holmes, just the man I was hoping to see." He raised the syringe again. "Take another step and your friend will die."

"I don't think so." Sherlock said low and dangerous. The lights in the room glowed brightly and the syringe exploded, sending shards of glass into his hand. A glimmering shield protected John from the same fate and the Artist staggered back against the far wall, clutching his ruined hand and keening. Sherlock approached him imperiously. "The position of the largest pieces of glass tells me you probably have severed nerves. Awfully hard to make art without your dominant hand." Sherlock grabbed the man's face and slammed it back into the wall, knocking him out.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and fired off a text to someone, probably Lestrade. John relaxed in his bonds.

"Jesus, Sherlock. One minute later-"

He never got to finish his sentence as his lips were otherwise occupied by Sherlock's. John strained at the straps contained his arms, wanting to pull Sherlock closer. Nimble fingers undid the straps and John sat up, all without breaking contact with Sherlock. When the absolute need for oxygen was too much, they broke apart flushed and smiling. Smiling until John felt a wave of nausea roll over him as the adrenaline faded from his system. He sagged and Sherlock supported him until Lestrade showed up with some other annoying officers. He stayed with John while he gave his statement, rode to the hospital, was checked over by a doctor, and released.

John collapsed in his armchair as soon as he was inside the flat, sighing in relief.

"This is the third time you've saved my life," John laughed tiredly. "Maybe I should take a turn saving yours."

"John, this is the second time I've been the reason you needed saving," Sherlock said from the kitchen as he prepared some tea for John.

"Semantics."

"John, I hope this doesn't become a habit, getting yourself in trouble," Sherlock said teasingly, appearing by John's shoulder with a mug. "As much as I enjoy dramatic entrances..." He trailed off as John laughed. "What?"

"Dramatic entrances aren't that hard to do for you. All you have to do is turn up your coat collar and let the light bounce off your cheekbones." John laughed again as Sherlock blushed. "What? It makes you look cool."

John sat awhile with Sherlock as he regaled him with the details of how he had made the connections that led him to the disgraced plastic surgeon known as the Artist. His eyes began to droop and Sherlock noticed.

"John, you should sleep," Sherlock took his hand and helped him up. "But if you don't mind...I would prefer it if you did so in my bed."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, acting scandalized.

"Just so I can keep an eye on you, just for tonight," Sherlock pressed seriously. "I have this...irrational fear that if I leave you alone tonight..."

"Sure, I didn't want to climb those stairs anyway," John said easily. "And...well..." Now John was blushing. "It doesn't have to be _just_ for tonight. It's not like I haven't slept with you before. Oh God, that sounded better in my head."

"No it didn't." Sherlock said lightly, leading John to his room.

Later, long after John had fallen asleep with Sherlock's arms around his waist, Sherlock lay on his side listening to John breathe. The only light came from the alarm clock on his bedside table that John had insisted he needed to get up on time for work. Sherlock had of course called John in sick with a rather good impression of his voice, and turned off the alarm after John fell asleep. John's words circled in his mind over and over, chasing each other round and round.

 _One minute later..._ John had said.

Yes, one minute later and John may have been fine, or he may have been dead, injected in the heart with enough sedative to kill a small rhinoceros. He would never know, and he didn't like not knowing. But John was safe, he was here and Sherlock was going to keep him that way. He could not go back to living the way he did before. Even Lestrade had commented on the way Sherlock's abrasiveness seemed to have softened somewhat. It was as if the mere presence of John's conscious in his mind was bleeding into his personality minutely, smoothing the rough edges.

Of course only Lestrade, who knew Sherlock well, had noticed. To everyone else he was just as condescending and offhand. But John, though sometimes the recipient of the errant comment about average intelligence, saw a different side of Sherlock. Saw past the mask that was his day to day life. Accepted the immature, brilliant, petulant man-child and powerful sorcerer for who he was and had chosen to stay with him forever.

How he needed John so poignantly after such a short time he would never be regretful of. Never.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock didn't remember falling asleep, still curled in a protective cocoon around John, but he must have done so a few hours after John fell asleep. In hindsight, Sherlock realized he should have expected what happened.

Sherlock woke with a start when John violently shoved out of his arms, flailing in half-asleep fear and falling unceremoniously to the bed.

"Don't touch me!" He cried, covering his face with his hands. Sherlock crawled slowly to the floor so he wouldn't startle John with any sudden movements. John looked small where he sat tangled in the sheets, shoulders shaking with ragged teary breaths. Sherlock reached out tentatively with his hand to touch John's shoulder and was gratified to see that John did not flinch away, merely leaning in slightly to the touch. The dark haired detective was somewhat at a loss for the right course of action. He decided to start by calming John's erratic breathing. He grasped one of John's hands gently and pulled it slowly away from his face to settle it on his own narrow chest, still grasping John's hand.

**John, I need you to breathe with me, ok?**

_I'll try_

Sherlock took measured breaths, holding John's hand against his chest. John slowly began to even out his breathing, and his racing heartbeat slowed to a more normal pace.

"Much better," Sherlock whispered. They continued this way for a minute or two, just silently matching each other. Sherlock tried to ignore how similar John looked now to when he had been found in that dark basement. It is at this point that many people would have asked john if he wanted to talk about his dream, or if he needed a glass of water or something to help him sleep.

Sherlock did none of these things. He didn't need to be bonded (or a detective) to tell that all John wanted was not to be alone.

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

"Yes, John?"

"I hope you don't mind fur in the sheets," John said, finally meeting Sherlock's gaze with soft eyes. Sherlock shrugged.

"It's your turn to do laundry," Sherlock replied, standing and helping John to untangle himself from the sheets that had twisted around him on the floor. Sherlock didn't need to add that he would do anything to make John feel safe again. John settled himself on the bed, morphing into his dog form. Sherlock sat up against the headboard, his sleep quota for the night filled, and he settled in to watch over his familiar for the rest of the night.

John fell asleep for the second time to the sensation of hands stoking his fur and a waltz on the violin floating through his subconscious.

* * *

Sherlock was still awake when he felt John stirring. The Australian Shepherd stretched with a large yawn that made Sherlock smile. John rolled over to his back, giving Sherlock a goofy dog-smile.

"Breakfast?" Sherlock asked briskly. John was off the bed and out the door before Sherlock could even finish standing up. Sherlock followed. "I believe you have a few hours before Lestrade shows up to talk to you about the 'Dollmaker', as they've taken to calling him."

John just hopped up onto his chair and sat waiting for Sherlock to make breakfast.

"It will be awfully hard to drink tea without opposable thumbs," Sherlock pointed out as he set a cup down in front of John. If a dog's face could convey annoyance, John's was doing it then.

"Who chose the name 'Dollmaker'?" John asked, taking the cup of tea with his hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Anderson, most likely. He's always wanted to come up with a name for a serial killer." Sherlock checked his phone, deleting texts from his brother without reading them. "Lestrade usually doesn't bother."

"Listen, Sherlock. I'm sorry if I scared you last night," John laughed nervously. "I certainly handled myself gracefully."

"Yes, for a man with your skills in hand-to-hand combat, you fall out of bed with unusual poise," Sherlock said seriously. But John could feel his amusement. That was the last they spoke of it. If Sherlock truly wanted to, he could peek into John's dreams and see exactly what had happened, but he would never betray John's trust in that way. It was an unwritten part of their bond.

"What are you going to tell Lestrade about how you found me? I don't think a telepathic bond made possible by an ancient form of sorcery that binds a shapeshifter to you is an acceptable answer," John pointed out. Sherlock stared off into space for a moment.

"Did you have your phone with you?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah..." John said slowly. "Why?"

"Obvious. I'll just tell Lestrade I traced your cellphone when I realized you were late coming back from the library," Sherlock looked pleased with himself, a look that made John feel warm inside. John stood and crossed to where Sherlock was sitting and placed a kiss on his lips. "What was that for?"

"You already know, you git."

* * *

"I have one question for you," The shadowy figure said silkily. The men in front of him shivered. "How is it, that after nearly a decade of running a smooth operation, I now have the full force of the British government on my tail?"

No one answered. They all knew better.

"Not once has anything more than the vaguest of rumors of our existence gone around. Yet, in the span of less than a year, one product has been misplaced and two of my men arrested in pursuit of it." The man behind the desk leaned forward slightly, enough to show the light glinting off his dark eyes but not enough to illuminate his face. "This unfortunate string of circumstance will not be happen again."

"No sir." The group intoned.

"You know what will happen if it does," The figure leaned back into his chair, fully obscuring his face again. "People will die."

Silence. The man grinned toothily, though no one could see it.

"Now, who wants to play animal control?"

**Author's Note:**

> Please drop me a line anytime if I make glaring mistakes on grammar and what not. This is un-betaed.


End file.
